Chaotic Inadequate
by lyraluxe
Summary: Follow our three heroes (Chagrin the dwarf, Morag the paladin & Tyth the Warlock) through mayhem and madness as they find new things to screw up, blow up and throw up - and not entirely in that order. Based on the 'Chaotic Adequate' podcast, written and produced by Gregory Akerman. Starring Angus Dunican (Tyth), Steve Cross (Chagrin) and Amanda DiGioia (Morag).
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _Hiccup!_

 _"You see, the thing is - no, shut up, listen - the thing is, it's magic users."_

 _"Yes, you've said that before." Morag seemed unfazed by Chagrin's blatant disregard for her heritage._

 _"Be quiet, wait. It's magic users. Not magic. Magic is, well it's magic, isn't it?"_

 _Hiccup!_

 _"How profound, such wisdom. Truly a question for the ages!" Tyth's words seemed almost painted in sarcasm, the art of which fell on deaf ears. Morag having missed the mark (going by the offence on her face), and Chagrin who lapped it up and continued with vigour._

 _"Yes, it is! Magic will heal me, wake me up, cure my hangovers, but magic won't Eldritch Blast me itself - a magic user will."_

 _"A magic user will also punch you in the throat."_

 _Hiccup!_

 _"You know, I don't think I've seen him this drunk before. He's so deep in his cups, I'm surprised he isn't spitting out pearls." Tyth noted to Morag as he studied the dwarf. The last hiccup! had been so violent that Chagrin was almost thrown from his chair. Managing to right himself before painfully greeting the floor, he turned and strutted to the bar with all the balance of a ball bearing in an earthquake. Disappearing into the crowd, his movements could be tracked by the displacement of the other patrons - the occasional curse spit downwards, a flagon or two knocked straight upwards out of startled hands by a dwarf on a mission. Tyth let his eyes wander. If Chagrin managed to upset the wrong person in the short trek to the bar then surely they would hear the commotion long before they saw it. There wasn't a hope in seven hells of tracking him before his journey's end._

 _Chagrin knocked one last tankard out of his way, ignoring the gruff exclamations of displeasure from those caught in the light shower of hoppy dregs, and climbed up the bar stool. He teetered on his knees upon the seat for a few moments as he considered his liquid options. He took no notice of his surroundings: the two women to his right, pretty enough through his mead-filtered vision, enamoured with the hooded gentleman to their right - holding onto his every word as though they might fall from the earth otherwise. A number of lonely figures on his left, all stood hunched against the bar and tables so they might block out the clamour of the world around them, none inviting conversation of any but the barkeep._

 _Mead, stout, ale. Chagrin had had his fill of these. He fingered his hammer. Pensive._

 _Back at the table, Morag rose from her seat, which would have gone unnoticed by the focused Tyth had she not tripped on the strap of her bag and knocked him painfully into the side of the table._

 _"I'm going to…there. Over there." Stubbornly ignoring the world shifting under her feet and the grumbling human, Morag departed the table, leaving Tyth alone with his thoughts, his ale, and his people-watching._


	2. Keith, Interrupted

**_Chapter 1_**

 _"_ Yes, yes! One bottle of your finest Elfin wine, please!"

Two bartenders got Chagrin two bottles of wine. He blinked, shook his head - one bartender.

He focused on the baritone voice on his right.

"So, ladies. If you were pirates, would you have your parrot on this shoulder…or this shoulder?" It asks, before the owner taps his hands on the shoulders closest to him, slings his arms over their shoulders and pulls them closer.

Their giggles were almost as much from mirth as they were from the wine, clearly, as one of them lost her bearings and dropped her cup onto the bar, showering Chagrin in sweet red wine. Normally he would have been happy to have been showered in alcohol, but not with his favourite hammers on his belt and his best chainmail on. As if sensing she would have a better time of it to clear up her mess as soon as possible, she had near simultaneously whipped a handkerchief from nowhere and begun to dab at his face, apologies wafting into him with sweet perfume.

 _She's no dwarf, but she's pretty._ Chagrin had to give her that. He also had to give her an earful. Especially as she kept dabbing at him, trying to _touch_ him. Trying to reach every drop of her spilled drink. Putting his face at such a height that if he were to, accidentally, slip from his chair then his face might find two soft pillows to land on.

"Never mind! It's quite alright, honestly!" Actually, he would have loved to give her something other than an earful. Especially as she kept dabbing at him, trying to reach every drop of her spilled drink, and he had noticed that his face sat at such a height that if he were to, accidentally, slip from his chair then his face might find two soft pillows to land on. Hypnotising.

"Well if you insist, I mean, I am slightly smaller than you so a little goes a long way. A _very_ long way. See - some on my chest there, and on my leg too - just above the knee!"

The hooded man, jealous and possessive - and with, in Chagrin's mind, more than one of his legs to stand on- took a swig of his wine and raised a hand at Chagrin.

No stains. Bone dry. _Magic_. The fretting woman stepped back in awe.

"Oi, don't use your magic on me mate." Chagrin wouldn't admit, but the arrogant scoff that followed had wound him up more than the magic. He waved his bottle at him, indignant at this blatant abuse of power.

"Do you hear something, ladies?" They had, for they tittered behind their hands, trying to cast apologetic eyes at the rapidly incensed dwarf.

"Good question. Say, ladies, have you heard the one about the dwarf with the ten inch-"

"I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

The hooded man had released the girls, slammed his tankard on the bar next to Chagrin's ear - ignoring his whine of pain and protest - and grabbed the dwarf by the front of his tunic. Spittle had landed on his forehead as the hooded man growled at him.

Head side to side, scanning for allies and finding none, Chagrin took matters into his own hands. He fingered his hammer. Thrust it forwards from its loop on his belt. The hooded man didn't even flinch.

* * *

The pulse of bodies around her, Morag pushed through the crowd of revellers. High spirits all round as she chased her quarry.

"What are you even doing here? Wait!" Even her own ears, enhanced as they were, struggled to hear her shouts over the cancelling press of robes and armour and bodies and drunk joy. Her desperation, strongly influenced by mead, had her pushing people from her path in a bid to keep her target in sight.

She had almost made it through the crowd. Emerging, a hand on her waist yanked her back in. A ginger man wearing glasses smiled down at her, hazy gaze, hands innocently raised.

 _Everyone's a comedian_ , she thought, as she pulled her arm back and punched him in the throat.

She turned, just in time to see her quarry disappear in a flurry of cloak, lavender, around the large wooden door standing guard at the entrance to the pub. She fought her way back out.

Kissed by night air, finally, she heard that damnable sound of escape. Hooves on the path, galloping beyond her reach. Even with her Dark Vision she could barely make out the figure retreating from her. She cursed. He had to have left something behind. No, this wasn't coincidence. He hadn't even taken off his cloak - he must have been waiting.

There it was. His cloak. Thrown over the top of, what even she could have guessed to be the most recently vacated horse post, a cloak of Lord's lavender. Like the flags people hung from their windows during jousting season: mocking her. Boots crunching on grass and hay, she made her way to remove it. Then the scent hit her, just as it had so many years ago. His scent hadn't changed, and neither had he. It ran across her fingers like water as she freed it. Waves of silk, waves of nostalgia. He still couldn't leave well enough alone, either. A letter, same damned shade of lavender, nailed beneath the cloak. _Morag Lokihäärme_ scrawled across the front. Scrawled, but in elegant cursive. Trembling fingers broke the wax seal, and trembling lips mouthed the words in disbelief.

 _Morag Lokihäärme,_

 _You are cordially invited to the wedding_

No, no, no. They really had found her. A smaller note, inside.

 _Dearest Morag,_

 _Your Lord father has given his permission should you wish to attend. I cannot promise that he won't be as hateful to you as he always has been, but I can promise that no harm will come to you._

 _You have more family here than him alone._

 _Yours eternally,_

 _Yorën._

God, she wished someone was dead instead.

She kicked at the dirt, stamped down by years of hooves and a few weeks of dry weather. What right did they have? Why, why had they chosen now?

Morag's reverie was broken by the unmistakeable sound of glass breaking. She turned to the pub and stepped aside as the dwarf flew past her.

"My bar!" The despairing wail of the barkeep was barely discernible over the wave of cheers that ricocheted through the pub. Chagrin's departure through the window had invited violence inside and incited a riot. Tyth hadn't seen Morag re-enter. Chagrin _definitely_ wasn't inside. Stupid dwarf.

Tyth couldn't get around it, he couldn't go under it or over it. The only way out of here was through it.

"Hang it all." Deciding that their bags weren't worth the trouble it would have cost him to get out in a timely fashion, and relatively unharmed, he kicked them all under the table a little farther. Steeling himself, he took one last look at their belongings... and put Chagrin's bag on top. He dove in.

Well, he stood up and bounced off of a priest. Trying to stay as balanced as possible in an effort to avoid losing himself to the growing tide of punches, Tyth turned to the priest to offer a hurried apology. He was met by a chair. In the time it had taken him to raise his hands in a visual apology, the priest had grabbed and thrown the nearest object in retaliation. Tyth threw himself to the floor as glass rained upon him. Narrowly missing his scalp, the chair had instead crashed through the window behind him. The priest took offence to this defensive move and advanced towards him.

 _Honestly, how does one dwarf manage to cause this much fucking hassle?_

Tyth launched himself through the glassless window, just in time to see his pursuer's head jolt forward, pushed, throat impaled by the remaining glass. Face still growling even as his last breaths gurgled onto the window pane and down the wall.

Sat in the dirt, Tyth had no time to feel sorry. To be fair, having that much furniture in a pub with that kind of reputation was never going to end well. Trinkets hanging from the ceiling, chandeliers and apparently easily removed torch brackets. Nothing was safe now, and those brackets had been bolted to the wall, Tyth thought as he shuffled around on the floor to avoid missiles. Forwards, to get cover beneath the windows, he forced himself. Took a breath. Made his way to the next window. Another breath. Lowering himself, he crawled beneath it, until he felt something hot and wet on his back. Turning his head to the right, he looked up - was that a leg?

 _Fuck it._ He ran.

Rounding the corner on his approach to the front of the pub, the dwarf was nowhere to be seen - although a dwarf is a difficult thing to find at the best of times, dark vision or not.

"How did you manage to fuck up this badly? Honestly! You're like ten sugar rushing children crammed into one child's body! Not even five bloody minutes we left you alone for!" Morag's hair glowed like fire in the intermittent shadows of bodies blocking light from the pub.

"Where is he?" Spinning on her heels, she pointed a finger into the darkness, eyes ignited.

"Where do you _think_ he is? He's capitalising on the consequences of his own insufferable nature!"

Squinting into the darkness, Tyth thought he could just about make out Chagrin hunched over in the dirt - looting someone that hadn't survived a window as well as the dwarf.

"Hey! I resent that. As one door closes, a window opens. Opportunity works in mysterious ways."

"Except a door didn't close. You were kicked through a window."

"Right, and what do you call a window with no glass? Open! Aha - ball bearings. Thank you, my friend." Chagrin moved onto the next body.

Morag kept turned away from the dwarf, afraid of what she might do. Besides the residual alcohol in her system, the fact that Yorën had found her and Chagrin being Chagrin, she was bound to snap soon.

"Look, there's two horses over there and I reckon we could get far enough away pretty quickly, set up camp for the night, and come back tomorrow to see if any of our stuff is left." Morag didn't seem pleased by the thought of leaving her morningstar inside that chaos overnight.

She didn't have time to respond. A blue light began to spread across the field, a pulse knocked her from her feet, and then silence. Tyth landed not far away, groaning faintly.

"Oh god, I'm deaf!" Chagrin had been lost even to Morag's night vision, but as always he compensated.

"Idiot." Morag was already back on her feet, crouched and ready. Between Chagrin's whining and Tyth's whimpers, there was nothing to be heard. She strained her ears a little harder. Moved towards the pub. The blue light remained. A voice carried to her ears.

"…one more time. I swear, I will burn this place down myself. With all of you inside! The absolute last time!"

Raising her head above the window pane, Morag first saw bodies twitching on the floor. All of them. And the last man standing? Keith. Barricaded behind his bar. One hand clutching a torch, the other hand bloodied and splayed against the wall, a rune, the source of the light. Shaking with deep breaths and rage.

"What the fuck?" Chagrin stood in the doorway.

"Warding runes through the whole pub. After you lot got the Bucket burned down, I wasn't taking any chances. Stuns the lot of them. Gives me time to get them all out and the doors locked up. They wake up outside, go home feeling awful. This thing shocks something nasty, I tell you now. It's not the first time I've had to use it. Every time I tell myself it'll be the last but it's like they _enjoy_ it. Sadists."

The torch brackets lay scattered around the room, several poking out of backs and shoulders. A disembodied arm twitched on the bar, and tried to drag itself along - towards its owner? towards the barkeep? - but its journey is stopped. Keith, a man on a mission, unleashed the last of his rage upon it. Swinging the torch, still lit, repeatedly against it until it is bloodied and mangled beyond recognition. Beyond human. Like the screams ripping their way out of Keith. Wordless noise.

"At least it's still standing. And my wine survived!" Chagrin ended the sentence by upending the bottle of wine into his mouth, to Morag's sincere disbelief.

"Oh yes, thankfully your wine survived! Whose fault was this? Yours! You! You've singlehandedly destroyed my pub twice!" Keith's torch waved through the air. Kind of like he was trying to bat a fly. Or write his own name.

"Actually, Tyth was the one that cast create bonfire the first time. And the orcs, don't forget about the orcs. Did you know that you can write your own name if you move that thing fast enough?"

"You never even pay your tabs! I think it's time for repayment, don't you? I'm not going to stand you treating me this way any longer!" A fire lit behind Keith's eyes. Tyth, having managed to drag himself up to Morag's window, nodded along.

"Of course! Chagrin will be happy to help in any way that he can!" Head swivelling slowly towards the door, Chagrin could make out the blue light reflecting from Tyth's teeth before he saw the shit-eating grin.

"Hold on, you're the one that served us all the drinks! You got everyone drunk, not me. All I did was get kicked through a window."

The fire extinguished itself. The torch rang against the stone floor as it succumbed to gravity. The energy keeping Keith standing, all the rage, all the fear. Everything seemed to flood out of him as he melted to the floor. One hand bloodstained, the other curled as if still holding the torch. Keith lay, and wept into his hands. He wept for The Lyre of Orpheus.

"I think we should help him. It's not like we have anything better to do."

"Tyth, you dwarfist! You can't just sell me into slavery! Let's just kill him again."

"Actually, that sounds like a pretty good idea. It's got my vote."

"Since when has this been a democracy? I can't believe you'd agree with him, Morag! We'll kill him, take the booze, loot these fuckers and ride those horses into the sunset. Sunrise. Where am I?" Eye into the bottle, looking for one last drop, Chagrin missed the despair turn to horror on Keith's face.

"How could you say that? You know, I think about that night _every time I close my eyes._ " Keith pulled himself up from the ground, shoulders shaking, hands on the bar.

"You left that note for me. Orcs burned down the pub and you, you _rescued_ me. You wrote that orcs looted me while I was unconscious - but I knew it was you, Chagrin. That spark, when you touched me, rifled through my pockets. That kept my heart beating. Your hand - so rough, so hairy. Tell me you felt it! Chagrin please, why do you think I always look the other way for you? Even when you're being an asshole? That joke you make, I've always wondered whether or not you're the dwarf with the -"

"Nope!"

"Tyth you haven't even heard the end of the joke!"

"Oh, how I hope it has a happy ending…" Keith, head tilted to the side, eyebrows knitted, looking straight at Chagrin with hope. Tyth, sat on the bar with the others, wished one of the bar stools had survived. Maybe he could have fitted his head into the gap between the legs and snapped his own neck.

"What would happen if we were to just leave here? Or, just throwing this out there, what if we just killed you?"

"I keep many secrets. If anything were to happen to me, several enchanted documents would be delivered to people who might be moved to take action upon discovering them. For example, I'm sure Brian would have been thrilled to find out exactly how his son died. Or the orcs, how would they react once they found out what really happened that night at The Bucket of Blood? You already killed the only orc that knew, tried to use it in his bid for power, but you took care of him didn't you? Or the Trapper people, and their eastern camp."

"Ha! Chagrin's getting blackmailed, finally some consequences."

"I wouldn't speak so quickly, Tyth. What really happened to your village? Morag, how about you? I'm sure your father would be delighted to -"

"Right, we don't have a choice." Morag interjected. The colour, fortunately not visible to the others, drained from her face as the blood rushed through her feet. She could have sworn it fled into the ground, and oh did she want to follow.

"Well you're right. Except, hang on a minute -" Chagrin thrust his arm into the air, finger upwards at a ninety degree angle from where he lay on the bar between Morag and Tyth " - you're wrong and I don't care."

"We'll do it. We'll rebuild the bar."

"No, we bloody well won't. Don't listen to her."

"I've lost all my staff, too. That was my assistant manager." Keith motioned to the bloodied mess of arm at the end of the bar. "Someone needs to take his place until I can get a replacement in. I'm sure Chagrin would be great at servicing - I mean, I'm sure Chagrin would be great at customer service."

"Kill him."

"Great! Let's shake on it." As Tyth lithely dropped from the bar top to stand on his own two feet, Chagrin made to stop him and rolled face first onto the floor. As Tyth and Keith locked hands, Chagrin's fingers curled around a forgotten bottle of wine that had taken cover from the carnage in front of the bar.

"Brilliant! Now we're talking." Lifting his head, preparing to take a quite frankly well deserved drink, Chagrin was lifted back onto the bar by Tyth, bottle swiftly removed from his grasp by Morag. As he began to protest, she reached under the bar for a glass to pour a drink for herself.

"You can have this back when you shake hands with Keith." Chagrin's eyes narrowed at her. At this point, Chagrin would probably do as much damage to her as a stiff breeze.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure we'll find another way to seal the deal." Keith winked as he took the bottle from Morag, now too shocked to respond, and returned it to the dwarf.

"I'll be honest with you, Keith. It's been a while. So slide a few more of these my way, and I might just say yes. Even though you're over four eleven. I'll make an exception for you."

Morag dropped the glass.

A fruit fly flew into Tyth's mouth.

"Look, guys, I'm a dwarf. How many dwarves have we run into? Besides, I'm a Fifth Edition guy. I don't discriminate like that."

"That's literally ninety percent of what comes out of your mouth." Tyth would forever claim that the fruit fly in his mouth had actually said these words.

"Shut up, magic user. You all look the same to me, anyway. Dwarf women look a lot like dwarf men. I'm not one to disappoint my fans, Keith has been very kind to us."

Keith, with renewed vigour, lifted Chagrin into his arms.

"I've got some drinks upstairs. How would you like to come and have a rifle through my drinks cabinet?"

Morag and Tyth didn't hear the end of the conversation. They doubted that they wanted to.

Rolling from the bed, and taking the silk sheet with him, Chagrin cursed the living, the dead, and the magic users. Especially the magic users. Rough feet, used to cold floors, shuffled towards the chamberpot. Hands fumbling for his belt, he found nothing. No trousers. He tried to focus his bleary eyes through his pounding head and the piercing light of day. Only flesh and hair. _Alrighty, then_.

Relieving himself, trying to stay balanced, he looked around. Four poster bed, fur blankets, silk pillows and one less silk sheet. Nice. Fire dying out in the hearth. Heavy curtains aching to be pulled shut. Keith, naked, asleep on the rug. Six…seven bottles emptied by various amounts. Ball bearings scattered on the floor.

 _Hang_ on.

He turned towards Keith, still flowing.

 _Alrighty, then._

Lifting the sheet from the ground and taking care not to step in any puddles, Chagrin didn't even bother tiptoeing out of the room. Making his way across the landing, onto the stairs, he took no care to be quiet unless it would have hurt his already pained skull. A number of ball bearings had rolled through the door onto the landing.

Wind in his hair, fur beneath him. Fingers in his hair, blue lights.

Looting. Lots of looting.

Chagrin stopped, sat at the top of the stairs.

Hands rough, round a throat. Hands, soft, roughly round his throat. The brown hair of the barkeep tickling his feet. More looting.

Deciding to chance the angering the dragon that had taken up residence in his brain, Chagrin descended. He missed the ball bearing on the third step, and rolled the rest of the way.

The fire downstairs had died out in the early hours, and was nothing more than embers. Some time between removing the bodies, and body parts, from the premises and finishing another bottle of wine, Tythe and Morag had fashioned a den of blankets and pillows fenced in on all sides by three sofas and the fireplace.

Morag woke first, ears sensitive to the dwarf rolling down the stairs. He wasn't loud about it, in fact he seemed to be in such a bad state already that falling down the stairs hadn't brought a sound from him.

Finally, when he came to a stop, she heard a soft mewling. Cracking her eyes open, she saw him wrapped like a child in a sheet, weaving as he waddled over to the sofa, bumping into things. She kept them open as he climbed over the arm, landed, and was still.

Until he huffed, and poked his face out from his cocoon.

Morag groaned, and pulled her pillow over her head.

"So. Where are we off to next?"

"I think the better question is how are you not dead from alcohol poisoning?" Tythe hadn't moved, he hadn't even opened his eyes yet, but he fuelled his sentiment with as much scathing and sarcasm as he could muster.

Chagrin's arm reached out from his silk cocoon to slap Tyth on the front of his face.

"Modifiers, mate. And don't be rude. Answer the question - where to?"

Tyth reached up and pulled on the silk until the whole bundle came crashing down around him. The world didn't stop spinning after Chagrin landed. Between gulps of air, he managed to arrange himself comfortably around the heads of his two party members.

"If you do anything like that again, I promise you I will fill every pair of shoes you own with what my body is currently trying to reject." The world hadn't stopped spinning, and neither had his stomach.

"Thank you for that wonderful visual, Chagrin. Really what I need this morning. Besides, Tyth only owns one pair of shoes." A snort came from Morag's side of the den.

"Ha! Not after last night, the little looter. I remember that! How many pairs did you find to fit those gargantuan feet? Although, you know what they say about a man with big feet -"

"Please, please shut up." Tyth, pulling the pillow from beneath his head, slammed it onto the approximate location of Chagrin's face and left his hand there.

"Can't stand to hear the truth, eh?"

Tyth pressed down.

"Are you trying to kill me or my feet?"

Chagrin kicked his feet out as he and Tyth began to bicker. Morag seriously considered creating bonfire on the pair of them, just to shut the pair of them up.

"Good, good! Communication is key between teams!"

Keith was awake. Chagrin turned to stone and snored, unconvincingly.

"Chagrin, an especially good morning to you. I had hoped you would wake me first, but the bed was still warm and your legs are too short to have gone too far."

Another snore. Tyth and Morag blinked at Keith as he loomed over their den.

"Oh, I could have sworn…Well, us three had best have a bit of a tidy up before breakfast. Don't want him to start the day on an empty stomach, do we? He's burned off enough energy already today, and I bet he's grumpy when he's tired. Come along you two. I have a list. I think we'll clear an area outside, we can do most of the repairs out there. It means less to clean in here."

Morag seriously considered creating bonfire on him. Keith was far too chipper this morning. He was practically _glowing_.

"Tyth, follow me down to the cellar. I've got wood, hammers, nails, screwdrivers, screws…"

Tyth struggled to get his bearings. Chagrin let out another snore.

"I thought you got enough of that last night." Tyth mumbled under his breath, hands rubbing at eyes.

"Did you say something? Come on, this was your idea. Best lead by example, now. Once we make a bit of space we can sit down for breakfast." Calling over his shoulder, having bought Chagrin's act - _seriously, how?_ Morag thought - Keith disappeared, and his voice trailed after him.

Tyth made sure to kick Chagrin in the head as he stood.

"Listen, you sold me into slavery."

Tyth sighed.

"I had hoped you wouldn't remember that. Besides, we're all here, Chagrin."

"I'm not all too clear on what happened last night but I'm pretty sure that the bits I do remember even orcs would consider illegal. _Orcs._ "

"I'd rather not hear -"

"I'm never going to be able to look at most of my ball bearings again! And do you have any idea how many uses there are for hand bellows? The things you keep by the fireplace? They make pretty good paddles, especially when they're warmed up. You can even -"

"Thanks for the visual, Chagrin. Great way to wake up. I think I'll spare myself the nightmares and get to work now. _Hand bellows…Jesus_. I think I'm going to be sick." Morag kicked him in the head too.

"Is that Chagrin I can hear? Did you wake him up?"

"No! Fuck off!" He wormed his way to the middle of the den, in front of the fire, and piled the remaining pillows on top of himself - a miniature mountain of warmth and wrath.

"We could be out the door already, but you two can't handle your hangovers."

Tyth and Morag watched him. Every time he managed to get himself out of these situations and leave them to do the dirty work. Well, at least they didn't have to think of any more uses for hand bellows.

They put their shoes on together in silence, occasionally sneaking glances at the other. Both wondering who was going to bring up last night first.

It turned out, Chagrin was going to bring it up first. Tyth had begun to wander after Keith as Morag picked up the remaining torch brackets, but they both heard it.

"I hope I'm not sleeping on sex sheets! God, that would really top it all off."

Neither acknowledged that they'd heard - just the same as they had the night before. It would have been hard enough to get into the mood after wearing themselves out relocating bodies for half the night, no matter the moans that had come from upstairs.

* * *

A/N: The first few chapters are being uploaded in quick succession with changing lengths - if you follow my first account, this will be familiar to you!

Chaotic Adequate is available on iTunes and definitely worth being stared at on the train because you've had a glass of wine and can't hold the laughter in.


	3. The Night Before the Morning After

A/N: There's a lemon in the second part!

* * *

 **Morag & Tyth**

 _02:00_

Another body hit the ground. Hauling it off her shoulder, Morag wiped the sweat from her brow.

"Tired already?" Tyth smirked at her before heading back inside.

"No, but I'm absolutely boiling." Her foot nudged a bottle. She picked it up, opened it, sniffed the contents. It wasn't great but it would do. Taking a few swigs, she sealed it again and threw it at the growing pile of bottles as she passed it. The smash wasn't loud enough to cover the noises coming through one of the upstairs windows.

Leather boots, leather breeches, cotton shirt, leather waistcoat. Morag shed her waistcoat and threw it over a chair, untucked her shirt and relished the slight breeze. She loosened the cloth where sweat had stuck it to her skin.

She didn't notice the notes slipping out, but Tyth did. He hurried his next body into the night, and back in, hiding the notes in his pocket.

 _2:45_

The fire was lit, the sofas and rugs had been arranged.

Morag and Tyth lounged, catching their breath.

A rattling started above them, the chandelier above their heads swaying. Then a thump. Silence. They looked at the ceiling.

The moaning continued.

Morag confronted it first.

"Rock, paper, scissors to decide who gets the blankets?"

"Gods, no. I say we keep drinking - last one standing won't have to remember whatever's going on up there."

"Fair enough, I reckon I'm further along than you are anyway."

 _3:27_

"Rrright. The amount of alcohol I would need to even consider going up there would literally kill me." Morag rolled onto her front, facing the fire, and let the empty bottle of wine topple from her hand as she picked up the next, drinking deeply.

"True, I'm give - giving up. We could play a game instead. You could tell me why you've been hiding this wedding invitation."

The wine sprayed into the fire. Tyth lifted his hips up to free the papers from his back pocket, clumsily. Flaming red hair, red wine, the fire...almost like a real dragon. Shaking his head, he cleared that thought. She'd have his head if he said it out loud, even if it was a compliment.

"They slipped out of your shirt earlier. Funny thing, here. The Blenheim's…inviting you, of all people, to the wedding of their only daughter."

"Not their only daughter."

"That makes so much sense. You don't walk round with a chip on your shoulder - you walk round with the whole sack of potatoes."

"Thanks, means a lot. Marriage isn't a big thing among elves, especially with humans. Even so, in the eyes of his people - I'm illegitimate. All I want is for him to acknowledge me. Officially. I don't want his money, I don't want his land. The name, the title, that means nothing."

"He sounds like a dickhead."

"He is."

Tyth lifted his head to drink from his own bottle. Morag wiped her face, she felt the fire drying her lips out and licked them.

"Who's Yorën?"

"Ambassador. Our people weren't far away, we traded ambassadors in good faith."

"Right but who is he? To you?"

"The ambassador. It doesn't matter, I'm not going."

"Morag, you're a dragonslayer now. That's not even half of what we've done."

"Listen, I'd sooner go and watch Chagrin get it on than see that simpering, brainless child get married to some puffed up prince."

They both looked at the ceiling. Tyth gulped. Pushed his glasses further up his nose.

The creaking continued upstairs.

* * *

 **Chagrin & Keith**

A pair of armchairs, across from each other in front of the fire. Thick fur rug on the floor between them. Chaise longue in front of the bed. Chagrin, draped over the chaise longue.

"I have wine, whiskey…"

"Great! I'll have a large."

"Which one?"

Keith winked and Chagrin stared at him, almost offended.

"Both, obviously."

Chagrin heard the clink of glass on wood as the barkeep pulled out glasses, poured the drinks.

He turned, made his way across the room holding both glasses.

Chagrin saw his opportunity to take control of the situation.

"Stop. Kneel."

Keith stopped in the middle of the floor. Dropped his knees to the cold floor, smoothly so as not to spill a drop and risk angering the dwarf.

Chagrin stood, padded over to him. Took one of the wine glasses from his hand, leaving the other, used his free hand to caress Keith's face. He took a large gulp, polishing half the cocktail up in one go.

"Take off my belt. Keep that wine glass in your hand - don't spill a drop or you'll have to lick it up."

Keith hooked his fingers under Chagrin's belt. Chagrin swirled his drink, a bored look on his face (although that was mostly down to his focusing on staying upright).

"No, no. Use your teeth."

Keith smiled up at him and moved his face forwards, teeth and lips hot against the cold metal buckle. He struggled with the buckle for long enough to leave a trail of saliva when he pulled back sharply to yank the leather from the belt loops. Wine slipped over the rim of Keith's glass.

Chagrin narrowed his eyes.

"Lick. It. Up."

Keith dropped to the ground, tongue scraping the floor boards as he sucked up the wine.

Returning to Chagrin, he pushed his nose up underneath Chagrin's chain mail shirt and the cotton tunic underneath, nestling into his snail trail and nipping him lightly.

Chagrin's hand fisted in his hair as he shivered against Keith's face as his mouth worked the button through the hole.

He sucked in a shaky breath, released Keith and pushed his trousers down. The sound of ball bearings barely muffled by cotton gave him an idea. Keith remained on his knees, eyes cast down in submission. The dwarf reached down and rifled in his pockets, removing four ball bearings.

"Take your shirt off."

Keith ripped at the shirt, aching to feel Chagrin's touch hot against his flesh.

"Slowly."

Taking his time with the laces at the top, Keith inched the shirt up over his belly, then his head, revealing an almost smooth torso. Chagrin handed him the other glass of wine. Keith knew what was expected.

Chagrin caressed his face, Keith sighed into his palm and let his lips rest on the wrist. With both hands full, he longed to reach forwards and get a good handful.

"Warm these up for me."

Chagrin popped the ball bearings into his mouth, breath hot against his fingers. Keith looked up with adoring eyes, mouth working on the ball bearings, mind working in anticipation.

"Two in each cheek."

Keith's cheeks bulged where the metal balls distended them.

Holding himself in his fist, Chagrin noted the drop of fluid that had accumulated at the tip of his cock, and brushed it against Keith's nose. There was so much more to come. He let his cock fall free, pointing straight at Keith's face. He swung himself against Keith's left cheek, who relished the soft thud against his face. Chagrin teased him for a few moments. Enjoyed the way he struggled to keep the ball bearings in place as his tongue emerged for contact.

Chagrin finally pushed in, feeling teeth scrape against his skin where Keith had been unprepared, feeling the heated metal on the edges.

Fisting Keith's hair once again, Chagrin tried to go slowly, but it just felt _so good_. He felt the back of Keith's throat opening and closing as he tried to catch quick breaths, the balls knocking against each other. Keith took as much as he could, but even Chagrin could see Keith couldn't fit much more into his mouth. His gag reflex was already in overdrive.

Chagrin grabbed him by the ears, forced Keith's head to move at his speed, thrust his hips faster, then _stars_.

Chagrin held himself deep, and leaving one last line of his seed across Keith's chin like a milky worm he allowed his knees to give out and collapsed into the nearest chair,

Keith caught his breath on the floor, breathing heavily through his nose as he tried to hold the ball bearings in his mouth. His head swam. Keith dragged himself across the rough floorboards, wine glass still in hand, sweat sticking his clothes to his legs, a feeling that quickly became uncomfortable - especially the extra sensitive protrusion between his thighs. He dropped the ball bearings onto Chagrin's bare thighs. Settled the wine glass on the floor.

"Clean those off for me, I'll need them when you're ready."

"I'm ready now!"

"I'm not. Clean them."

Keith sucked them back into his mouth, one by one, rolling them around as if testing them for weaknesses. He dropped them back into Chagrin's lap like a hen laying eggs.

Chagrin commanded him to strip. No, not like that. Slower.

Keith peeled the trousers from his legs, wincing as he struggled to pull himself over his erection - like trying to put on a Christmas jumper gifted to you by a distant aunt who had judged your size using the last time she had seen you.

He tried his best - which was't very good, but Chagrin barely noticed.

"Turn around."

Keith turned. Chagrin kicked his legs further apart, reached down into the wine and wet his hand with it. Keith squealed as the hand came down on his inner thigh. Chagrin wasted no time licking up every splash of wine, every rivulet that ran south, enjoying each and every shudder given by each and every lick of his tongue.

Keith breathed through it. _Heavily_. Chagrin continued to lick, even as he dipped his finger back into the wine, and went straight for third base. Keith barely gave resistance, as tight as he was. Chagrin couldn't see Keith's eyes roll back into his head, ready to implode with the slow, frustrating teasing the dwarf seemed to torture him with. But his knees shook, and Chagrin saw that. He added another finger.

"What do you want me to do to you?"

Heavy breathing.

"Everything." The whispered reply, almost as though he feared what might come from that simple admission.

Three fingers.

"Be careful what you wish for."

He pushed the first ball-bearing in.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't bring myself to put the whole lemon in at once, so here's half a lemon and please rest assured that the rest of it is coming.


	4. Scream If You Want Table Service

The last five days had been long and hard on the trio. Chagrin and Morag worked on rebuilding the lost furniture, reattaching the lights and fitting fresh windows while Tyth repainted and organised.

There had scarcely been time to train Chagrin on correct bar service, or floor service, or anything else required of him during the short servitude required of him.

The deliveries had been coming in for days - replacing everything that had been stolen, destroyed, gone out of date or had been victim to Chagrin's insatiable thirst.

"One last touch." Keith smiled proudly as he set the milk crate down on the floor in front of Chagrin and held out the apron.

"That's fucking humiliating." Chagrin looked down at the crate, then up at the apron. He eyed the fire.

"Come on, Chagrin, you agreed to help me out. It's just for a few days until I can get a replacement sent over. One of Brian's brothers agreed to come out and help, we just have to wait for him to get from Mithra. Take out your frustrations on me later, my love."

Chagrin wasn't sure he would be able to - he'd had a lot of frustration to take out over the last few nights. And mornings. And afternoons, evenings - pretty much all the time. This was hateful to him. At least he could get Keith to do most of the work.

But Keith had already opened the doors, and the first customer was already beelining for the bar.

From his place at the end of the bar, signing invoices between mountains of other paperwork, Keith's eyes followed Chagrin's every move.

"Welcome to the Lyre of Orpheus. What can I get for you?" Chagrin's eyes could barely be seen over the oak bar top, even on his tiptoes.

Keith had, at least, had time to teach him the preferred greeting during Chagrin's many visits to the pub.

"Alright, mate? I'm just deciding." He walked up and down the bar, taking his time to read the label of each bottle on display. Chagrin followed.

"Can I have-"

"We've got mead, stout, ale, wine, elfin wine, cherry wine, cherry beer, wheat beer, pilsners, apple cider, raspberry cider, blackberry cider, cherry cider, pear cider-"

"Great! Can I have-"

"Excuse you, I haven't finished. We've got whiskey, honeyed whiskey, cinnamon whiskey, moonshine, gin, spiced gin, fruit juice, schnapps and a large selection of herbal teas."

Chagrin blinked up at him. Waited for him to open his mouth to order.

"We've also got nuts."

"I'll just have two of the ales, thanks." The man leaned on the bar. Chagrin's eyes narrowed.

"Which one? We've got like five."

"That one." The man pointed at one of the badges attached to the pumps.

"Do I look like one of those x-ray vision, magic using twats?"

"Two pints of the Morningstar IPA." The customer bristled.

Chagrin blinked.

"Please." He added on, subdued by the threat of service being refused.

Chagrin's narrow eyes seemed to sink as he returned to the balls of his feet, fetched the milk crate, positioned it, and reappeared as he climbed on top.

He grabbed the nearest pint glass, wrapped his left hand around the pump marked **_Morningstar IPA, 6.9%,_** **_2 silver_** and pulled down sharply. Ale covered the front of his apron.

"Push it back slowly so the box fills up, then tilt the glass at a forty-five degree angle underneath the tap and pull slowly. Just like that."

Taking care not to pull too sharply, he over-poured both pints and left no trace of bubbles on top. Puddles formed beneath them as the beer broke free. He took no care in how carefully he put them down.

"That'll be four…ten silver pieces please."

"That's extortionate!"

"It's Morningstar IPA. It's 6.9%, made with cascade, target and golden hops and has a well balanced, citrus aroma and a smooth malty base made to balance perfectly with the sharpness from the citrus. Ten. Silver. Pieces."

"Fine, can I have a portion of orc scratchings as well? I'll just sell an arm, or a kidney, shall I?"

"What the fuck is an orc scratching?"

"Like pork scratchings, but orc. It's literally right there in the name."

Chagrin turned on his milk crate to look at Keith with eyes widened in horror.

"Tell me you didn't."

"What else was I meant to do? They're a delicacy in some parts. That's pretty much all that survived The Bucket of Blood. They're already so salty that they didn't need much work - and they last for ages. I don't know what I'll do when they run out, people come from all over for those. They're kind of a secret menu thing, though. I've got a couple of orc patrons and I don't know how they'd feel about me selling orc scratchings…"

"Call them what they are, man. They're the charred flesh of your friends! Have you no shame?"

"I once watched you minesweep for three days straight!"

"Yes, Morag stole my money. I had shame, I just had no money. Or alcohol."

"Can I get the orc scratchings or not?"

"Why don't you have a portion of fuck off and do one?"

Huffing, the man took the pints from the bar and made to leave. Clearing his throat, _loudly_ so his anger would truly be expressed, Chagrin asked the first patron if he'd forgotten anything.

Reaching into his pockets, the man counted ten silver pieces before returning to the bar.

Then placed them on the tops of the pumps, just out of Chagrin's reach - even with the help of the milk crate.

"Since the _prices_ are so steep."

"You're barred. Dickhead."

"What did you say to me?"

"I killed a dragon. Keep walking, mate."

"Chagrin -"

"He made a short joke! What do you expect me to do? You're going to allow that?"

"Chagrin, they're the source of my entire income. When they say something truly bad - _then_ you can bar them. Not before. And only with my approval."

Chagrin narrowed his eyes. More customers through the door signalled his escape. Two adults and a child. Keith berating him was tuned out. This was _perfect_. Chagrin watched them over the bar, as they walked in, sat down, picked up menus and remove their coats. They expected table service. They stared, right at where Keith stood. Seemingly talking to himself. _Perfect_.

"Do you think we should help?"

Sitting on the bank of the nearby river, Morag and Tyth had unpacked a miniature feast. They weren't needed at the pub and couldn't have handled any more of Chagrin's bitching and shenanigans and hare-brained schemes even if they'd been paid.

"We could do that…Or we could stay here and _not_ do that." Morag kicked off her shoes to make a point of which way she had cast her vote.

Tyth pushed his spectacles a little further up his nose, and shooed a butterfly away from himself.

"Yeah, go on. Pass the cheese."

For them, late morning passed into late afternoon, the sun forging their path from the open air of the river bank to the shade of a nearby tree. Bickering, laughing, accompanied by the languid water, the occasional surfacing of a fish.

The day passed almost as smoothly for Chagrin, and infinitely less so for Keith.

Chagrin had thrown all of his energy into every customer that passed the threshold of the Lyre of Orpheus. He had only dropped the first four bottles of wine. Three plates of food in the first four hours. Hell, it had taken almost six hours spilling moonshine and whiskey on himself before his apron accidentally caught fire.

All Keith had had to say for it was that maybe Chagrin was a little bit nervous, maybe he should take the rest of the day off. It was only five p.m.

"Seriously, I can't go back yet. He's driving me crazy!" The sun was almost down, and insects had started singing for the moon. Blissful, that was the only way Tyth could describe that moment.

"You're already crazy, Tyth."

"Rude."

"Can't I have one more day of peace without Chagrin?

"Rude." Crashing through the bushes, Chagrin stomped across the grass to their groans as he settled beside them. "I'm a delight to be around, I'll have you know."

"Aren't you meant to be working? Why do you smell like…is that smoke? _What did you do_?"

"My original plan didn't work."

"Get fired on the first day?"

"If anyone could get themselves fired on the first day, it's definitely you. Seriously, why do you smell like smoke?" Tyth chimed in, reaching into the basket and pulling out an apple. Juice ran down his chin.

"See! Thank you Tyth! I knew it was a good plan. But it didn't work. So I planned to do something else. We're leaving."

"What did you do? We have to go back!"

"Nothing, _yet._ But tonight, we're leaving."

Tyth's hands flexed in the grass. One day, that was all he asked for. The lush greens of the river bank, growing red in the sunset, melted with his dreams.

"I won't even ask about the secret you're keeping from me if we go tonight. Because all offence to you, Tyth, but let's face it. You two definitely aren't shagging. So let's go and deal with whatever stupid quest the world throws at us next. I'm sure we'll find one."

Morag spluttered, tried to convince Chagrin that they were _knocking boots_ , and there was no other secret. Tyth swallowed the last of his apple.

"Morag's half sister is getting married and refuses to go because her father hates her."

"You traitor!" She aimed several sharp blows at Tyth's shoulder and torso, wherever she could reach. "Actually all of them hate me, and I hate them too! That's a perfectly acceptable reason to _not go_!"

Chagrin's face brightened. The grin spread slowly, and neither Morag or Tyth believed it was a good thing.

"That is _perfect_! Free booze, free food, hopefully a free show too - perfect!"

"I'm not going."

"Then we'll go as your envoys. Come along, Tyth."

Jumping up, brushing the grass and crumbs from his trousers, Tyth took one last look at the river. He pulled his boots on. Morag threw herself down onto her back and, sighing loudly, she rubbed her face.

"Can we at least send help for Keith? God knows what state you're going to leave him in." She wouldn't have to be the only one that suffered.

"Satisfied. I will leave him satisfied."

"Oh, I was having such a lovely day."

Chagrin crashed into the room, breathing heavily and buckling his belt.

"Come on, hurry up. Can't you pack any quieter? I don't want him to hear us and try to break free! Pack all of it. I have a plan." He whispered as loudly as he could, considering simply shouting at them instead for all the good it was doing. Hurrying over to the basin, he rinsed his arms and face, and dabbed at a suspicious stain on his left knee.

Tyth and Morag rushed round, the latter still weighing up her desire to leave this place and her desire to stay and help with the absolute nightmare of going home.

Throwing their bags together was difficult, they had picked up so many new things while looting the unconscious patrons.

"Your plans always end horribly. You're the reason we're in this mess, don't think that getting us out if it is going to be just as easy."

"What makes you think stealing horses is easy? It took so long to get one horse, I was sure I'd get caught taking the second. Don't even get me started on the cart, those things weigh a tonne with or without wheels!"

Tyth and Morag stopped packing. Blinked at each other. Both shook their heads - it wasn't worth it, not today. They ended up wrapping their things in pillow sheets, towels, whatever they could find, and heaving it all out in a bed sheet each.

Chagrin took Morag to the woods with him to retrieve the cart. She could see better in the dark than Tyth could, and it was a tricky path to the cart. It took them twenty minutes to get back to the pub, and Tyth was nowhere to be seen. The front door was wide open. Chagrin drew his crossbow and stole silently up the steps, Morag at his heels. They peered through the door. A single figure, rushing quietly about the pub. Chagrin aimed. Morag pushed the crossbow down and stepped in.

"Tyth? What are you doing?"

"We can't just leave. If we let Chagrin piss off everyone, we won't get any more quests and I happen to like this pub. We'll make it look like there was a fight. Morag, you and I will pretend to kidnap Chagrin. It will explain the horse theft, the cart, and our disappearance."

Chagrin puffed himself up.

"Well, I am very kidnappable. We might as well turn the lights on."

Lighting a candle, Chagrin and Morag stepped back in awe.

Blood pooled on the floor, scattered off in some places. Tables and chairs had been flipped, and one of Tyth's old cloaks ripped to shreds. The charred remains of an apron melted onto the grate of the fire. A bottle, with some sort of clear spirit, in Tyth's hand as he aimed at a wall. While his grin was gleeful, it was menacing in the light of a single candle.

"Is this a massacre or a kidnapping?"

"Owlbear blood. I had to use two vials! Get ready to start shouting, and bang your weapons about."

"If we're going to do this, we'd better do it right." Morag wore a grim smile. She pulled her arm back, made a fist, and let it fly.


End file.
